


Entangled

by myrtlebroadbelt



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 02:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6066745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlebroadbelt/pseuds/myrtlebroadbelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin returns to Bag End in a sticky situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entangled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyoakenshields](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoakenshields/gifts).



> Originally posted on Tumblr in response to a prompt sent by [hobbitunderthemountain](http://hobbitunderthemountain.tumblr.com).

Bilbo is in the kitchen when he hears the door to Bag End open and close and Thorin’s heavy booted footsteps thud through the entrance hall. He glances into the parlor, expecting to see the dwarf on his way to greet him, sweaty and smiling and hungry for luncheon after a morning at the forges. Instead he finds the room empty.

“Thorin?” he calls, and receives no answer. With narrow eyes, he steps into the hall and towards the pantry, thinking Thorin may have stopped for a covert bite to eat. When he has no luck there, he tries the bedroom.

The door is ajar, and Bilbo can hear low Khuzdul curses on the other side. He carefully nudges it further open and peeks his head through the available space.

“What in the world!” he exclaims over what he discovers inside.

Thorin is standing at the foot of the bed, his hair flipped over in front of his face, thick fingers attempting to disentangle several barbed brown orbs which have found themselves caught among the strands of black and silver. When he hears Bilbo’s interjection, he splits the hair in the center as if opening curtains and peers out guiltily. 

“What happened?” Bilbo wonders, stepping into the room and struggling to suppress a laugh.

Thorin straightens up, letting his hair fall back to its natural state—or at least as natural as it can be in this particular situation. He looks terribly embarrassed. “I was returning from the forges, as usual, when I saw the Sackville-Bagginses approaching me. So I took the long way round.”

Before the dwarf can continue, Bilbo is making a sound as if he caught something in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry, what was that? Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, ran away from the Sackville-Bagginses?”

“She wields that umbrella like a sword,” Thorin says defensively. “Regardless, I encountered an extremely vicious plant that felt the need to attack me with these dreadful things.”

“They’re called burrs, and you’ve made a mess of trying to take them out.”

“I didn’t want you to see.”

“I hope we don’t have to use the scissors,” Bilbo mutters, reaching up with both hands to turn Thorin’s head this way and that as he accounts for the damage.

“Scissors?” Thorin repeats, sounding even more horrified than he was to hear from Óin the extent of his battle wounds.

“Don’t fret, it probably won’t come to that. I know just the thing. Wait here.”

Bilbo hurries back to the kitchen and returns with a bottle.

“Cooking oil,” he explains. “I had more than my fair share of burr attacks in my day. My mother would always use this to get them out.” 

He sits on the bed and uncorks the bottle, motioning for Thorin to join him. The dwarf settles into the space beside him, and Bilbo pours a puddle into his palm, leaving the bottle on the bedside table as he rubs his hands together. He reaches up to smooth the oil over Thorin’s hair and, after a little coaxing, successfully glides one burr out.

The only problem is that his arms are beginning to feel like dead weights, and he still has three more burrs left, all of which are positioned even higher on Thorin’s head.

“Why don’t you just put your head in my lap?” he suggests. So Thorin maneuvers his feet onto the bed—taking care to first remove his boots—and leans back with his hair spread across Bilbo’s thighs and onto the quilt.

“I feel like a child,” the dwarf grumbles as Bilbo runs his significantly more limber fingers through another section of hair, tugging gently. “I never foresaw the need to defend myself in the Shire, least of all from a plant.”

“They’re nasty little things, I won’t argue with you there. Did you know that their purpose is to latch onto the nearest moving creature so they can carry their seeds to a new place?” He slides another burr out and continues talking. “Then the whole process starts all over again. Rather rude of them, if you ask me.”

Thorin hums below him, and Bilbo glances to see him closing his eyes. He appears to be enjoying this little head rub. Bilbo hopes it doesn’t give him the idea to stick his head into burrs on a regular basis.

Bilbo talks on and on about various plants, quoting from books he’s read on the subject and facts he’s heard from the gardener, before he finally persuades the final burr out of Thorin’s hair.

“There, all out! What say you hop up and rinse off in the bathroom, hmm?” 

Thorin stays still in his lap and doesn’t respond. 

“Thorin?” 

That’s when he hears the soft snores escaping the dwarf’s mouth. Bilbo sighs, not knowing whether to be offended that his chatter put Thorin to sleep or flattered that his touch relaxed him. Regardless, he smiles and continues gliding his fingers through oily hair, even throwing a few gentle scalp scratches in for good measure.

His trousers are sure to be greasy enough to fry potatoes by the time he stands up, but he pays no mind.


End file.
